Choices
by Fantasy1800
Summary: Based on The Batman cartoon. Disclaimer: I do not own any of The Batman. After a strange encounter with a man who claimed that he knew The Joker, Harley is forced to leave the hideout in order to keep The Joker safe. But is she safe on her own?


Chapter 1 – Encounter

POV: Harley

It was a Thursday night. I was walking to Gotham Cemetery from a supermarket, hiding under a ginger wig and wearing nothing on my face but glasses. I knew I should be heading back to the hideout as soon as I was finished buying food. I was normally at the supermarket for half an hour, but I also spent around five minutes in the cemetery. So that was nothing. Besides, Pudding didn't really pay much attention to how long I went out at night... as long as I was back by 7pm. Well, it was 6pm so I had plenty of time as the walking time to the hideout is around thirty minutes.

I continued walking to the cemetery and opened one of the black gates. Entering the cemetery with a chilly feeling had always been common every time I went there. I guessed that that was what happened once you were surrounded by graves, which were apparently occupied because of dead people. Funny how some people would think that there might've been ghosts watching them from their graves.

Well, I'd always believed that there was one ghost watching me ever since he died. And I visited his grave every Thursday. He and I used to live in a flat and he kept stealing money from a bank in order for us to survive through insurance and the bills. We had troubles and the police couldn't see that. They wouldn't even let me see him in his cell. For God's sake, I was thirteen. I never saw him again... I didn't even hear that he died until about five years ago. Every time I went to the cemetery, I not only felt sadness, but also a twinge of self-blame. I should've tried harder to see him in prison; breaking in at night; running past the prison guards; anything to see him. He died without seeing me one last time. His own little girl.

I began crying straight away before I found the grave I was looking for. I read the inscription on the headstone as I did each time I visited.

HERE LIES

FRANCES QUINZEL

18th JUNE 1965 – 17th SEPTEMBER 2003

A BELOVED HUSBAND AND FATHER

I replaced the bunch of dead flowers I bought last week and put fresh ones in their place. Then, as usual, I spoke aloud.

"I don't know if you can hear me, dad," I began with tears stinging my eyes. "But I want you to know that I still love you and I really miss you. I also want you to know that I'm okay and that you don't have to worry about me. I'm really happy now that I have my Pudding and his goons in my life. I sometimes wonder if you're watching me or if I'm just lying to myself. I believe that you are. I really wish that I had tried harder to see you in prison. I wish –"

Something banged into me, causing me to fall onto my side. I looked up and saw a tall dark outline of a man. He raised a fist, getting ready to strike. But I kicked him in his abdomen just in time before he could make impact. I got up and started running towards the gates.

I managed to get within twenty feet away from the gates, but my attacker tackled me from behind so I couldn't get any further. I tried to break free from his grasp, but he was a lot stronger than me.

He rolled me onto my back and I caught a sight of his face in the streetlight. He was a heavy-built man in his late twenties with sleek black hair and ice-blue eyes. I noticed his clothing. He wore dark jeans with leather boots and, instead of wearing a shirt; he had two belts which were criss-crossed round his torso. I spotted a lot of pouches and gun holsters on the belts. I panicked at the sight of the guns, and struggled even harder to break free.

"I want to talk to you, Harley," my attacker said, his voice husky.

"You've got the wrong girl," I countered, feigning innocence.

"Nice try, but you can't hide yourself with a wig and a pair of glasses, no matter how believable it is." He grabbed me by my throat and used his free hand to remove my wig and glasses. He tightened his grip on my throat, making me wheeze for breath, and then he lifted me off the ground. "Like I said, I want to talk to you. Now, you better listen if you don't want your breath to be your last."

"OK, OK," I gasped out. "I'll... listen. Just let... me go... Please."

He released me and I fall onto the path.

I breathed and breathed in the air, coughing as I did so. Once I was ready, I stood and faced the man who almost strangled me to death. "Who are you?" I asked, trying to put on a brave face even though I could tell that he could snap a normal person like a twig.

"You can call me Deadshot."


End file.
